


we carry the weight of our sins in our back pockets

by PeroxideBlue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Castiel Needs a Hug, Gen, Self-Indulgent, The Author Regrets Nothing, listen to me this hurt my soul, not really romantic love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeroxideBlue/pseuds/PeroxideBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you're burning" "told ya I was hot" / meg, castiel and what could have been but never was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we carry the weight of our sins in our back pockets

**Author's Note:**

> Meg was so good and pure and a blessing and I'm still not over her death. Besides, Cas really needs a friend because as much as I love the Winchesters and ship Destiel, they are kind of dicks to him sometimes. Besides, Rachel Miners is actually an angel and deserves more recognition and support for all she's going through. So yeah. I just wanted more Megstiel moments, whether as friends or as lovers.

There’s an old house in front of him, and he can tell it hasn’t received any visits recently just from the way the grey door is a bit open, spider webs between its edge and the frame. No visitors, except for—  
  
The kitchen, once he enters the house, is as abandoned and forgotten as the front porch, pots and glasses and plates all lying forgotten on the table and in the sink, like everyone left in a hurry and doing the dishes wasn’t important enough to keep them from going away.  
  
He wonders where these people are. Perhaps it’s better if he doesn’t know.  
  
A violent cough echoes through the empty corridors, and something akin to pain settles in his chest. It’s too painful to accept it.  
  
“Meg.”  
  
His voice is soft, calm and controlled, like he isn’t about to break down crying if he so much as looks at her eyes for too long. It hurts to let go. He, out of all people, should know that.  
  
“Clarence. Glad you could make it.”  
  
Unsurprisingly, her voice is the complete opposite of his; sharp, a bit loud and wild, almost as if she doesn’t have a thousand emotions she’d rather not show. She could have fooled him. But they’ve know each other for too long. Tricks don’t work anymore between them.  
  
She is lying on what he supposes is her bed, buried under a pastel blue blanket even though it’s warm outside. She’s fading, and there’s no force, human or divine, that could stop it from happening.  
  
He rests a hand against her forehead gently, and to some it might seem that he’s afraid she’ll break in a million pieces if he applies too much pressure.  
  
(Believe me, he is.)  
  
“You’re burning.”  
  
A somewhat feral grin comes to her lips, and perhaps there’s still hope. “Told ya I was hot.”  
  
“This is serious, Meg. You’re dying.”  
  
“She shrugs. “Just like any of those previously-immortal dicks, whether from hell or from heaven. So what?”  
  
“I am still very much alive.”  
  
“You’re a human, Clarence.”  
  
“I’m not. I am merely a graceless angel.”  
  
“Which equals human. And let’s be honest, humans start dying from the moment they are born. Hey, pass me the pink cushion?” Trembling hands grab it and Meg tries to make herself comfortable as she rests her back against the soft fabric of the cushion. “So yeah, you’re dying too. Just at a much slower pace.”  
  
The silence between them is dense, but Castiel is too worried studying how much pronounced the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes are to even think about filling the silence. Besides, he supposes, she could use giving her throat a break.  
  
“I had to travel halfway across the globe to find you,” he says gently, his fingertips barely a spot of welcome heat against the skin covered in sweat of her temple. He treats her like she’s a china doll, ready to break at any instant.  
  
“Stop it. I can still drag your sorry ass to the deepest circle of hell.”  
  
No one mentions the efforts he went through just to find her because that feels a little too much like love of any kind, and they can’t afford it. Not now, not ever.  
  
So they just listen to the old house creaking together and pretend this thing isn’t about to go down.  
  
At some point, she turns her head towards him, and something tells Castiel that this isn’t going to be good.  
  
“I think you should go,” she says softly, whispered words that hang in the air for a moment too long; maybe hoping that he’ll listen if she says something as simple as _please_.

He doesn’t move for a moment. Doesn’t even look at her, really. But then, there are two fingers brushing her bangs out of her eyes and there is something there, you know, in his cerulean blue eyes, and they’re both hoping it’s just tears and not something else.  
  
“You are a good person, Meg. You deserve good things.”  
  
And that’s all really. Words that can’t do any good against an imminent death and the feeling of being too little and not enough.  
  
It’s almost funny, you know. He was once an angel of the lord, a celestial warrior who had seen the world begging and who was supposed to see it end; her, a demon, something all cultures and religions were afraid of, the worst nightmare you could face.  
  
And they are both scared. Yes, they are scared because they are running out of time and _this wasn’t supposed to happen, oh my god, what have I done to deserve this_ and nothing feels good enough.  
  
They are scared, because in an empty and cruel world that only tries to break you, they are about to lose their only friend.  
  
“I hope I’ll see you around, Castiel.”  
  
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, it really shouldn’t, but suddenly his vision is full of unshed tears and there’s an ache in his chest that looks a bit too much like pain because of course she would say something like that in their last moments together (and possibly, her last moments with another person while she’s still in this world), and of fucking course this is the moment she chooses to switch from Clarence to his real name and, God, breathing burns his throat.  
  
“Goodbye, Meg. I’ll miss you.” His smile is soft and he can barely see her face with all the tears in his eyes, but he thinks he might have glimpsed a smile, and honestly, that’s all he needs.  
  
He turns before stepping out of the room, his left hand gripping tightly the frame of the door, struggling to get the words out of his lips.  
  
“How…?” He can’t say anymore, he can’t, so he hopes she’ll be smart enough to know what he wants to say.  
  
“Come by again in eleven days. If I’m not dead by then, yay for me. But I’m afraid I’ll be long gone by the time you set a foot in this house again.”  
  
He glances shortly over her shoulder, trying to memorize the shape of her body under the blankets while trying not to choke on the lump in his throat.  
  
She doesn’t smile this time, she just looks at him until he nods curtly and runs downstairs, not wanting to spill his tears in what now seems to him like holy ground.  
  
He goes back exactly eleven days later. This time, he can’t help crying over her bed’s sheets when he finds a ripped page with a neatly written ‘goodbye, stranger’ on it.  
  
He keeps telling himself that he was an angel, and that angels are above this, above feeling such a sharp pain between his ribs that makes him think he’s going to pass out, above human emotions.  
  
(But, let’s be honest, he stopped lying to himself a long time ago.)  
  
Days later, her grave is covered in fresh lilies (because not even another apocalypse could make him forget about her favorite flowers) and it reads: “Megan Masters: beloved friend and companion. Goodbye, stranger.”  
  
Out of habit, he rubs his cheeks with the back of his hands, which is a little bit unnecessary, because he hasn’t cried again since he came back to an old house and a lost friend.  
  
Kneeling on the floor, he brushes the last two words, written with Meg’s elegant handwriting, something he refused to leave out of her grave, and he can’t help but think this is by far the saddest farewell he has ever experienced.  
  
“I hope you like the flowers, Meg. Goodbye.”  
  
He doesn’t turn once as he leaves the cemetery, perhaps in hopes of— who knows. He just wants to get out of here as fast as he can before. Perhaps he runs away so he won’t see the wind carrying away the delicate petals of their lilies. Maybe.  
  
Or it’s just that his chest feels too tight because suddenly the enormous size of a cold universe that doesn’t care threatens to make his lungs collapse and suffocate him. Yes, he has the Winchesters (thank God, wherever he may be, for that), but it’s just not the same. Meg understood him, because, sadly enough, they were the opposite faces of the same coin, lost and wandering in a world full of mortals. Meg was the only one who knew how he felt and dammit if losing her doesn’t make his knees wobble and his soul scream in agony.  
  
Losing a loved one is painful. Losing your best ally is something else entirely.  
  
He leaves without looking back, and swears to himself that he’ll be strong enough to come here every week to give her the fresh lilies she always deserves. He swears she won’t be left alone again.  
  
(But promises get broken all the time, and the aging grave of a girl who made all the wrong choices doesn’t receive another visit from the blue-eyed stranger ever again.)


End file.
